


World without you

by BlazeRiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Post Season 3, Rated M for Descriptions of Violence, Songfic, fully ignores season 4 cause I've seriously still only seen the first episode, graphic descriptions of crime scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: John is finally back in Baker Street, ready to take on the world with his best friend, but when a case proves to be difficult on the detective, will their still-healing friendship prevail?





	1. Prologue - Home

**Author's Note:**

> Time for another multi-chapter, confusing epic with too many plot points! Whoohoo!  
> (Gonna try to finish this one over summer, let's see if I can make it)  
> (Oh and the song at the beginning of some chapters is a translation of "Wereld zonder jou" by Marco Borsato and Trijntje Oosterhuis. The title is a translation of the title.)

_I've put a masker on my face,_

_And when my friends ask about it_

_I tell them that it's lovely here, alone._

_Your picture's taken from the wall,_

_Like I could forget at all_

_It's you I miss,_

_How cold it is_

_How empty without you_

_Here near to me._

***

The halls were crumbling. Plaster was smeared haphazardly over cracks, doors were crooked on their hinges. Curtains were more tear than fabric. Pictures had once upon a time wormed their way into every room, but now they were all turned away, facing the wall. The complex had turned grey, impersonal. Nothing but a work environment for a lonely dweller. The times of life and joy were forever over.

***

John looked up at the building in front of him, his fist closely shut around his old duffle bag, the one that, once upon a time, had held everything he held somewhat dear. Back then, he'd been looking up at the same building. Now, his bag was holding mostly the same stuff- clothes, a file folder with diplomas, a few pictures. Only this time, nothing in the bag, no possession in  the world, could compare to what was most important to him. And he might've just ruined it all.

He hadn't seen Sherlock in _ages_. They'd been on a couple of cases, but it had not even been anything like it had been _before_. Sherlock had seemed tense, shut off, like a stranger. Overly polite, too. Still, it was the only place he could think of to go, and he knew the detective would let him back in. After all, the man had faked his own death for him, taking him back as his roommate would be easy.

His old keys were heavy in his hand. He'd wanted to return them when he moved, but Mrs Hudson had refused to accept them, adamant that he'd be back one day. The old hag turned out to be right, in the end. He turned it in the lock, pushed the door open. Smiled sadly at the crooked knocker. Trotted up the two flights to his old bedroom. The window was open, windows billowing. The bed was made immaculately, covers turned down invitingly. Mrs Hudson had been expecting him, then. He hung his clothes in his old closet, folded his jumpers in their old places on the shelves, placed his pictures and his medals in the bottom bedside drawer.

Eventually, he took a deep breath, went down the stairs and into the living room. There, his lanky once-best-friend detective was in his customary pose on the couch. John regarded him for a long moment, letting the feeling of _home_ wash over him. Then, he went to make two cups of tea.

When he returned to the living room, Sherlock was sitting up, giving him that _look_ that he still couldn't quite decipher, that strange thing akin to sadness or pain.

"I'm sorry." He spoke, his voice soft and rough as if he hadn't spoken in days. John sighed, shaking his head.

"It's not-" He sighed, sitting down next to his friend. "It's fine, Sherlock. I'll be fine. "

"Yes." Sherlock sighed deeply, raking his hand through his hair. "Yes."

John reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Jeremy Kyle was always fun to watch with Sherlock.

It was good to be home.


	2. Chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't think of a title for this chapter. Please let me know if you do.

_I just can't let  go of it_

_Although I say it's better now,_

_Alone and without you_

_I just can't handle it_

_I miss your arms around me,_

_No, I don't live in a world without you_

***

Slowly, cautiously, repairs were being made. The curtains were being sown back together, the stitches black and ugly against the classic, once-vibrant colours. It wasn't much, the place was still ready to collapse, but someone was there, making repairs, cautiously caring for it again.

***

Time passed, as it usually does. John found a part-time assignment in a small clinic, and Sherlock worked a few burglary cases. Soon, they found their rhythm, something precious and breakable. John desperately tried to be like before, but there was no denying they had changed. It would probably take them a while to find a new equilibrium, but until then, they were what they were: roommates, friends, annoyingly polite. Not really colleagues, yet, as the few cases the detective had worked were easy enough for him to solve alone.

John knew they would be all right. They had to be.

Two weeks after his return, John finally got to go along on a case. Lestrade called late at night, as John was just thinking about going to bed, and Sherlock practically lit up when he got the call. John hadn't seen him that excited since he was selecting napkin folds for the wedding. So, he collected his coat, followed his friend down the stairs, and waited patiently for the detective to explain.

"It's a bad one," He said, slipping into the back of the cab. "A woman, murdered. Lestrade said it was gruesome."

John grinned at him. "Try to reel in the enthusiasm around the officers, yeah? Greg will have our heads if we actually giggle at the crime scene."

He rolled his eyes. "I won't giggle at a crime scene."

"I might." John smirked at him.

They arrived at the crime scene, an apartment complex in the South of the city, not long after. Lestrade was waiting for them, face grim. He nodded at John as he held up the tape for them, led the way inside.

The scene _was_ gruesome. More than, even.

The door of the first-floor apartment was left ajar, police people milling around on the hall, most of them avoiding looking inside, some of them pale-faced. The inside of the apartment explained why; the floor and walls were smeared in dark red smears and bits, like a gruesome parody of a Pollock painting. In the middle was a woman, naked. She was the centre of the splatter, as if she'd exploded all over the room, but her body was mostly intact, apart from her flayed torso.

With the smell of copper in the air, John opted to breathe through his nose.

Sherlock moved through the room, making note of the walls, the floor, the body.

"John."

The doctor moved to his side, looked at where his friend was pointing at the woman's neck. There was a set of small, irritated dots there, almost like-

"Puncture wounds." John leaned in closer to examine them. "Snake bite, almost. But... not quite." He looked at his friend. "What do you think? There's too much blood here for one person, that's for sure. Not to mention the... bits."

"Pig intestine." Sherlock lifted one of her hands, sniffed it. "Probably. Do we have an ID?"

"She's the inhabitant." Lestrade looked down at his notebook as he told them. "Maria Peterson. Thirty-two years old, not married, no partnership. We're notifying friends and family now, seeing if they can help us find some leads."

"Good." Sherlock stood and pocketed his magnifier. "John and I will see what we can find about her as well." He swooped past them, down the hall and past the still half-shocked, half-disgusted officers.

John shrugged at Lestrade and followed his friend. He caught him just as he was jumping into a cab, and managed to slide in next to him before slamming  the door shut. Sherlock had moved to the other side of the car, jittering his leg and wearing that familiar, far-off, slightly exited new-case look. John knew he should probably leave the man alone. Still, it was his first real case since he'd returned to Baker Street, and he was exited, too.

"So, any theories?"

Sherlock looked over at him, slightly irritated. "Seventeen. Possibly thirty-nine."

"Care to share?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Not yet." He turned to the window, obviously ending the conversation and shutting his friend out. John understood. They'd had that conversation once, during a particularly hard case and after a very one-sided shouting match in which John accused his friend  of never letting him in on anything. Sherlock had explained, after, that he needed space and silence to retreat into his own head, to get the facts in order and find the hidden connections. After, John had left him alone when he needed.

They had arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock dashed upstairs, leaving John to pay the fare as usual. When the doctor came upstairs, Sherlock had locked himself away in his room, probably to think. John hung his coat and made his way upstairs, preparing for bed. The detective wouldn't need him in the next few hours, and he'd make sure he'd be there for the man in the morning. Until then, he could sleep, hopefully without nightmares.


End file.
